Beautiful Weeds
by Meadowlark27
Summary: The always so tightly-wound Katniss Everdeen isn't prepared for the shock she'll face when her friend, Johanna, drags her to a baseball game, where a certain blonde-haired, blue-eyed player may just turn her life upside-down. Everlark one-shot. Modern-day AU.


_In honor of the ongoing CWS, I've written a little Everlark one-shot about love and baseball and fun things like that. I'm from Omaha, which is the home of the CWS, and I do watch a little baseball with my dad, so my knowledge pool isn't __totally__ dry when it comes to this topic, but I did take some artistic liberties with the fic anyway!_

_So, if you're looking for some summer-ish, frothy Everlark… happy readings!_

* * *

Katniss doesn't know what she's doing here. She doesn't understand baseball, or even _like_ it, to be perfectly realistic.

But her friend, Johanna Mason, had offered up an extra ticket the night before, and since Katniss had no legitimate excuse to stay pent up in her mother's house for the entire afternoon, she tentatively accepted.

So now she sits perched in her navy blue plastic seat, her knees tucked into her chest, her eyes narrowing as they scan the tidal waves of sunburnt, t-shirt-bearing superfans for whatever teams are playing. She yawns. She couldn't care less.

"Try to tone down the excitement," Johanna drones as she leans over across the arm rest, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Katniss doesn't even bother tilting her head to look at her friend. "I'm here, aren't I? That's a miracle of its own."

"You could at least show some appreciation," Johanna tosses back, folding her arms across her chest. "To begin with, these are really nice seats. We're in the shade, _and_ we're behind home plate, meaning we get a nice view of the batters' backsides. Baseball pants do work wonders, don't they?" She sighs dreamily.

Katniss manages to pipe out a short laugh. "Is that why you're here? Why you _dragged_ me here? To stare at asses all day?"

"I'm a Vanderbilt fan, what can I say?" She shrugs indifferently, but she pointedly avoids the latter half of the question, so Katniss takes it as confirmation.

Katniss slumps deeper into her chair, her focus fixating on the next batter as he saunters up to the plate. His purple jersey does little to hide the corded muscles of his arms, his skin so sun-kissed that she briefly wonders if he's actually a bronze figurine. She isn't going to waste her breath denying that the baseballer species is just generally attractive—she's a twenty-year-old single college student, so she's surely not unfamiliar with the effects of hormones—but for no reason will she ever admit this to Johanna, so she keeps her lips bolted tight. She prefers avoiding her friend's harassment at all costs.

Besides, she's just never been as lust-driven as her colleagues. She doesn't know if something's wrong with her, or if it's simply that she's never met the person to turn on all of her switches. She doesn't suppose it matters.

So instead, she searches for something to apply her natural cynicism to, and her eyes flicker up to the massive screen out over right field as the name _Finnick Odair_ scrolls across the bottom in neon lettering. She crinkles up her nose.

"What kind of name is that?" she sneers, her fingers slipping around the condensation-chilled exterior of her drink, lifting the cup until the straw pokes through her lips.

Johanna cackles, "There's a lot of weird names on TCU's roster—Texas parents should stop venturing to be so creative. I saw the names 'Marvel' and 'Blight' earlier, and then there was one that was a type of bread or something… Pumpernickel, maybe? Poor kid."

Katniss nearly chokes on her Pepsi. "Oh my _god._"

"But, I can't rag on the parents too much. I swear, every single kid on that team is beautiful. It's like they've popped up straight from a GQ magazine. Or a porno." A sly smirk crosses her lips. "I'd be okay with the latter of the two."

For a split second Katniss considers dumping her drink all over her friend, but she ultimately restrains herself. She does elect to hiss out a sharp, "You're disgusting," but other than that, she returns her attention to the bronze god squared at the plate.

She watches him swing and laughs when he misses. Even before she walked into this ballpark, she decided that since she understands next to nothing about this sport—theoretically, the players are supposed to swing aluminum rods at a ball and try to hit it over the wall or something exotic like that—she would reap her entertainment solely from the blunders of the players. Her ruthless victimization doesn't prefer one team over the other; she simply likes watching big-headed athletes embarrass themselves.

Katniss knows she's bitter, and she doesn't have any desire to amend that. She was dragged from a perfectly mundane day of isolation to watch a sport she knows absolutely nothing about, simply because she lives in the same town where the College World Series is planted and her friend had an extra ticket. She promised (rather reluctantly) that she'd come, but she never pledged to enjoy it by conventional means. She'll do anything to make this afternoon remotely bearable, and if that requires finding joy at the expense of the players' egos, then so be it.

When the Odair character strikes out, she takes a celebratory sip of her Pepsi before turning to her friend.

"One more down. How many left?"

Johanna laughs exasperatedly, rolling her wide-set cocoa eyes. "Jesus, Everdeen. It's only the second inning."

"Out of four?" There's a sport with four subdivisions, right? Hockey, maybe? Tennis?

Her complete obliviousness warrants a nettled face-palm from Johanna.

"Nine, Brainless."

Katniss's jaw falls open with a loud _pop._ "And people watch this sport for _fun_?" She angles her shoulders back to face the infield, utterly shocked that all these surveyors are intending to make it through this entire event without dying from either heat exhaustion or boredom. She always thought _her_ endurance was impressive, but baseball fans have reached a whole new level of stamina, and she has to admire their tenacity, even if she thinks the cause is stupid.

Her gaze has drifted to the outfield as she idly observes on an outfielder kicking at the grass as he waits for the next pitch when she hears her friend chuckle at her side.

"Hey, good news—Pumpernickel isn't actually named Pumpernickel!"

Johanna's arm is extended, her finger steering Katniss's focus to the screen which displays a close-up of the player, under which threads a boldfaced _Peeta Mellark._ A small squeak bursts in the back of her throat as she finds herself staring at blue, all blue, oceans and rivers and skies, all funneled into the most beautiful eyes she's ever seen.

And _holy jawline._

Her eyes skim over his stats, and she sees numbers like .409 and 72 and 18, and she doesn't have a clue what these values mean—what the hell is an RBI?—but she feels her palms growing clammy, her throat running so dry she can hardly swallow.

"I hope he falls flat on his face."

And she does. Anything that would wipe that stupid grin off that handsome, borderline-Hitler-Youth face of his. She highly doubts he could be more cocky than the sun-birthed mythical creation had seemed before him, but there's just something about him that repulses her.

Maybe it's the fact that he doesn't repulse her at all. Maybe that's what makes her hate him.

Johanna shifts in her seat, bracketing her chin with her thumb and index. "I hope he falls flat on _my_—"

"Johanna!" Katniss hisses, her face flushing the shade of a traffic light. Moments like these make her wonder how she, the virtuous introvert, could've ever befriended someone as brazenly crude and bold as Johanna Mason. But they've been companions since preschool, when Katniss smacked a boy for pulling on her braid and Johanna admired her brutality. Even though the two attend different universities in non-adjacent states, they still return to their hometown of Omaha in the summers, passing their season with Johanna routinely dragging Katniss from her woman-cave so she can get a little sun and not isolate herself from the universe for three straight months.

(She would live under a rock if it were up to her. A rock without rules or standards or frivolous things like _boys_.)

But even now, with her pure disposition and natural hatred for all things sports-related, Katniss can't help but admire Not-Pumpernickel as he shifts at the plate, the bat held over his shoulder in his large, gloved hands. His body is arched, stagnant in wait for the oncoming pitch, and from underneath the violet helmet, she can see his blonde hair curling out around the rim.

And Johanna was right about baseball pants. They really _do_ do glorious things, although this player looks like he doesn't particularly need any help.

Katniss is hardly paying any attention to anything _but_ the bread-boy as the pitcher first coils, then reels, sending the first throw slicing through the air. She isn't immediately awarded with the pleasure of seeing this revoltingly non-revolting boy face-plant, though, as he stands still and watches the ball fly by.

The umpire calls a ball, whatever that means, and Katniss huffs.

The next pitch generates something different entirely, however, because the bread-boy uses his thick, muscle-woven arms of his to wield the bat through the air, and with a melodic crack of metal against leather, the ball is sent up into the blue.

Katniss is mortified when the ball falls short of the wall fencing in center-field—she'd expected him to send that thing straight over the river to Iowa—but the outfielder is too late for a catch, and she watches in awe as Not-Pumpernickel rounds first, then second, and slides roughly into third just before the ball reaches the third baseman.

He stands, brushing his gloves over his dirt-drenched pants as if simply swiping his hands over the fabric will make it magically white again, and Johanna leans over to whisper something probably crude in her ear, but she's not listening. She's calculating, judging—it's what she does best, as silence is her preferred trade, and she has to fill it with something—and she notices that he's a little shorter than most of the other players, his shoulders broad and squared as he levels himself on third.

There's a strange heat pooling in her core as she studies him, visually memorizing his sharp angles and his soft edges, and she squeezes her thighs together to either banish or sate the sensation. She's not sure which alternative she would prefer at this point.

Damn Johanna for taking her to this stupid game.

* * *

When the ninth inning comes to a close, Katniss is vaguely aware of which team won. The entire game had been filled with her fighting lead-weighted eyelids with occasional piqued interest when the blonde-haired TCU player moseyed up to the plate. Although, as it turns out, bread-boy is the _catcher_ for his team, meaning whenever his team wasn't up to bat, he was still directly in her line of vision anyway. Johanna, naturally, made some vulgar comment about him squatting that Katniss emphatically batted away.

The horizon is angrily towing in the sun by the time the players do their customary beelines across the field to shake hands with the other players, and Katniss moves to get out of her seat, but Johanna clasps her wrists.

"Patience, young Skywalker. We need to stay a bit."

Katniss groans in protest—hasn't enough of her afternoon already been wasted? "Why on _earth_ would we want to stay in this _goddamn ballpark_ any longer?" She has a delicious cup of ramen noodles and the entire season 3 of Sherlock left on Netflix just waiting for her at home.

"I need at least one picture with a player. Unlike you, I was actually rooting for a _team_… not just for every player to make an ass of himself."

Katniss counts sheep in her head as they wait, then file up to the main floor to do even _more_ waiting. _One sheep, two sheep, three sheep…_

After what feels like at least 72 hours, and she's lost track of the thousands of sheep prancing across her head, Katniss spots a few Vanderbilt players posing with some fans. She turns to her side to see Johanna eyeing something in the opposite direction.

"Your boys are over there," Katniss deadpans, pointing toward the men in black and gold baseball caps.

Without even so much as turning her head to acknowledge the Vanderbilt players, Johanna shoots back comically, "And _your_ boy is over _there_." Her index is directed behind Katniss, and after tweaking a brow, she whirls around to see what Johanna is motioning toward.

Her throat runs dry.

Next to the bronze sculpture of a player stands the blonde boy, his curls flipping adorably out from underneath his backward baseball cap. Sandwiched between them is a young girl of about eight, purple facepaint streaked across her face as her parents take a photograph of the trio.

Katniss gulps. "I'll just wait here while you get your obligatory picture."

"Nah, I have something more fun in mind." Johanna leers at her friend with a conspiratorial twinkle in her brown eyes, and Katniss tastes bile in her throat. She doesn't even have time to usher the compulsory _don't_ before Johanna does exactly what Katniss should've expected.

She goes bounding in the opposite direction of the Vanderbilt players.

Katniss freezes in place, absolutely _mortified_ with her friend, a thousand curse words she didn't even know she knew bobbling around in her head. Her cheeks are probably three shades darker than a tomato, her eyes wide in horror.

As the greek god eyeballs Johanna's Vanderbilt getup suspiciously, the blonde one flashes a crooked smile and nods at what her friend has said. She nearly caves in to the sudden urge to bolt out of the ballpark, but by the time she's convinced herself to do it, Johanna and the two TCU players are within spitting distance of Katniss.

"So Peeta, Finnick, this is my friend, Katniss," Johanna chirps, motioning toward the girl with the braid who's more rigid than a metal pole.

Finnick takes position at her side almost immediately. "What a pleasure to meet you, _Katniss._ Beautiful name for a beautiful girl."

Katniss wants to gag.

She's not quite sure _what_ face she must've made at him, but it spurs Peeta to step toward her, his arm extended and his smile apologetic yet still so impossibly warm. It makes her stomach flip, and although she wants it to be, the feeling isn't necessarily uncomfortable.

"Sorry about Finn," he expresses. "He's a little upfront." His hand is still hanging steadily in the air for her to take. Against her better judgment, she _does_, and the moment their palms align a shock pulses between them. She tries to jump back, but his hand is so _firm_ on hers as his gaze reels hers in, and she quickly decides that the blues of his irises are only more celestial in person.

Any possible cocktail of words fizzles in the back of her throat, her mind an endless labyrinth of slush. Katniss has never been the most articulate of people, but even for her, this is pathetic.

"And _Katniss_ is a little shy," Johanna chuckles, playfully nudging Peeta as if they're old friends.

Under her breath, Katniss murmurs a sarcastic, "Hopelessly." She hadn't intended for anyone to hear it, but Peeta catches it, and he chuckles. The sound causes tingles to shimmer from her head to her toe; his laugh has a beautiful cadence, as musical as any opera or symphony she's heard.

Johanna preps her camera as the two players shuffle closer to Katniss. Both of the boys—or _men_, really—wind their arms around her, chastely holding her by her waist, but Peeta's fingers curl around her more methodically. His thumb brushes over the fabric of her t-shirt, eliciting a flurry of goose bumps to freckle the skin of her back; she can't help but wonder if the touch was intentional. She also can't help but wonder why the hell she doesn't want to deliver a vicious uppercut to his jaw.

She somehow manages to conjure up a smile for the photo, her mind still desperately venturing to grasp the situation at hand. How did she even get here? Sandwiched between two players of a sport she knows next to nothing about? Both of which are beautiful? One of which has his hand snugly wrapped around her waist, his thumb brushing over her shirt?

Dear God, she may actually be attracted to this guy. It's not like Katniss has achieved moral nun-status; she's simply just not wired to have a normal romantic capacity. She was best friends with Gale Hawthorne for ten years and they shared nothing beyond a chaste kiss that both of them immediately regretted afterward. She's dated a few times, but never has she found herself in a worthwhile relationship. Katniss had always thought she was defective or something.

But the symptoms she's facing now—like the heat in her stomach and the pounding in her chest that only intensifies when Peeta pulls away from her to give her his incredible crooked smile—suggest maybe, just maybe, there's hope for her.

All because of the past sixty seconds she's spent with Not-Pumpernickel over here.

And she hates him for it.

(How dare he do this to her? Give her _feelings_?)

Suddenly both Finnick and Peeta release their grasps on the girl—Peeta a little more measuredly than his counterpart—and Johanna is standing directly before her. "I'm going to see if someone will take my picture with the Vanderbilt players."

Katniss frowns. "I can take the picture for y—"

"No, you can stay here." She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. Before Katniss can whine in protest, Johanna bounds past them.

Although she's aware it'd be courteous to at least utter a customary _thank you_ to the players, Katniss is frozen in time and space. She feels like she's drowning in midair, the atmosphere clamping in on her bones, crushing her from all directions.

She almost gasps in relief when she hears a musical chuckle at her side.

"You didn't really want a picture, did you?" Peeta says good-naturedly, seemingly undeterred by her taciturnity. He lifts his hand to wipe the beaded sweat from his forehead, and his cheeks are tainted pink (whether from embarrassment or sun exposure, she's unsure) but his smile is genuine.

She manages to shake her head, angling her shoulders toward Peeta just as a young boy asks Finnick for a picture; he leaves the Peeta alone with Katniss.

She gulps. She doesn't think she can do this.

"It's not that," she says, lifting a finger to uneasily toy with the end of her braid. "I'm just… I don't know. I'm not the biggest baseball fan."

"I'll try not to take it personally," he jokes, his grin brightening even more, a dimple hollowing into his left cheek. She notices his smile is naturally lopsided, but it's still… cute. _Really_ cute. And intrinsically friendly.

"Don't," she finds herself saying back, her tone significantly lighter than she'd expected. "It's not like I have a vendetta against baseball. I'm just really clueless when it comes to athletics—well, aside from track. I did that in high school."

She feels a violent blush blooming in her cheeks, coloring her entire face a bright crimson. Since when does she actually _converse_?

Peeta's expression is a mixture of incredulity and admiration, and it makes her wither under his gaze. "Me, too! That, and wrestling. And baseball, of course. Perks of going to a small school, right? You get to do literally anything and everything."

She folds her arms over her chest, suddenly overwhelmed with everything about Peeta. His amicability, his eloquence, his grin, his eyes, his jawline that could've only been chiseled by the gods themselves… "I wouldn't know. I had six hundred in my graduating class."

"Yikes." He scratches the back of his head. "Where'd you go to high school, then?"

_He's just trying to make friendly conversation_, she tells herself, but it's still unbelievable. Why is someone like _him_ giving someone like _her_ the time of day? "Here. In Omaha."

"You go to school here, too?"

"Out at the UNL, yeah. It's just an hour away."

"It must be nice being so close to home," he croons, a nostalgic smile whispering over his lips. "I grew up in Illinois, and I ended up all the way down in Texas for college. It's been a nice way to get my toes wet, but there are still so many days when…" Something ghosts through the blues of his irises, and he instantly rebounds with a rejuvenated grin, although he does a mediocre job of concealing whatever had crossed his expression just seconds before. "I'm sorry, I have an awful habit of rambling—you probably don't want to hear my entire life story."

She surprises herself by telling him, "I don't mind," and she begins to wonder if her assurance is sincere. Truth be told, there's something so soothing in the way he speaks, how easily he does it. While he talks too much, she never talks enough. At least he compliments her well.

She forces a small grin.

Before he can respond, Finnick's deep baritone punctures the air. "Mellark, I need you over here!"

Peeta's head whips in the direction of his teammate, and he offers him a curt nod before turning back to Katniss. "Well, I guess my life story can wait. It was wonderful meeting you, Katniss." The way his tongue rolls around her name, packaging it with a velvety texture that laces around her as it springs from his tongue, causes heat to shimmer through her entire body as if she's been electrified.

"You, too." She knows she means it.

She's not quite sure what they're supposed to do next—shake hands? Hug? Awkwardly walk away and play strangers?—and so she's thankful when he does all the work, lifting his large, calloused hand to brush against the bare skin of her arm. His thumb delicately sweeps over her flesh, and he gifts her with one of his dimpled, crooked smiles.

The second his hand leaves her arm, she feels cold, even in this ninety-five degree heat.

Just as he's turning around, Johanna flashes up at his side, her hands finding purchase on his shoulder as she whispers something in his ear. Katniss immediately grows tense as she watches the exchange, an odd mélange of anger and confusion feathering in her nerves. The sentiment only flares brighter when Peeta turns his head to look at her, giving her friend the same smile he'd given her just moments ago. But then he turns to look at her, his blue-eyed gaze arching over her once more, and he offers up half-wave before joining Finnick and a few fans.

"What was that?" Katniss snaps at Johanna as the two friends meet, anger flashing in her silver glare.

"What was what? Me leaving you with a really attractive baseballer, or me talking to him?"

Now that she mentions it, both.

Katniss is seething, her jaw coiled too tight and her thoughts too tangled to throw together a decent reply. At this, Johanna actually cackles, her fingers swiping through her short-cropped hair. "First of all, you should be thanking me, not grilling me. The boy's cute, and it looked like you two had a nice, healthy, _normal-people-type_ conversation. You don't have enough of those."

"It was awkward!" Katniss hisses. At least, it was _at first_. But Katniss isn't about to admit to either Johanna or herself that the little colloquy between her and the blonde-haired, blue-eyed all-American was actually tolerable, even… _pleasant_, really.

"It was _cute_! He seemed actually impressed with you, from what I saw. Every time I looked over here, the kid couldn't take his eyes off you."

"He was just being polite."

Johanna coughs, "Or _interested_, maybe?"

Now that the high of her interaction with Peeta is wearing off, Katniss is livid. "It doesn't matter," she fizzles through gritted teeth. "He lives all the way down in _Texas_, Jo. I'm literally never going to see him again."

Something flashes over Johanna's face, and Katniss scowls. "What?"

Johanna just shakes her head. "Nothing, nothing. Don't mind me."

"Actually, I _do_ mind you. Do you like watching me squirm? Is it some kind of _joke_ to you?"

"Actually, yes." She rolls her eyes. "Seriously, I was trying to do you a _favor_. You don't have enough healthy interaction as is. Hell, I think the only person you talk to anymore is me, and we all know I'm as far from _healthy_ as you can get."

"That's for sure," Katniss growls, but Johanna is correct regarding more than just her self-evaluation. Gale graduated from college in the spring and is already off in D.C. with a new job, and her other childhood friend, Madge, has an internship in Kansas this summer. Katniss would spend more time with Prim, but Prim has her own cluster of friends and obligations.

Katniss _doesn't_ have enough healthy interaction. Period. She never really had much to begin with, but this summer has sunk her to an all-time low. Johanna has been her only raft to bring her up for air; otherwise, Katniss has literally become a hermit.

But she likes it like that. She's naturally introverted, reclusive; she'd much rather spend her time in her room or walking along a nature trail or something _lonely_ than wasting her afternoon at a ballpark, briefly chatting up a player she'll never see again. That's just who she is. She _likes_ lonely. She likes low expectations and calm settings and fresh air and solitude. She always has.

Johanna's eyes smolder and soften, growing sympathetic as she touches her friend's arm almost exactly as Peeta had moments before. "Look. I'm sorry if I personally offended you and ruined your day, but I'm just trying to help you."

Katniss exhales. "I know."

"And I like pissing you off. It's more interesting than any damn baseball game could be." Katniss winces, and Johanna's thin fingers wrap around her arm. "Come on, pal. Let's go shake it off at Sae's."

She knew Katniss wouldn't be able to contest; both of them love Sae's. If Katniss isn't holed up in her bedroom, or lounging out on some high branch of an oak tree, she could be found there.

Katniss grunts in consent and lets her friend drag her away; she only looks back fleetingly, silver meeting blue in a flash of the crowd, two shy smiles exchanged before she stumbles out of view.

She sighs, mentally damning Johanna a second time for taking her to this stupid game.

* * *

They've been at the bar for just under an hour when Katniss nearly goes into cardiac arrest.

Johanna's finger is swirling absentmindedly around the rim of her cocktail—she's already twenty-one and can drink legally, while Katniss still has several months to go—when the bell overtop the front door of the tavern jingles. There's been a steady flow of bar-goers all night, so Katniss intuitively dismisses the sound as she presses her lips to her water glass.

At least, she doesn't think twice about it until her friend begins to chuckle.

"Well, would you look at what the cat dragged in."

Katniss tangles her feet in the wooden legs of the bar stool, spinning herself around to follow Johanna's pointed stare. Standing just inside the door, a bronze divinity and his friend with sunshine for curls survey the venue.

The choking sound Katniss makes draws their attention to the bar, and almost immediately, the boy with the cosmic irises cracks a natural smile.

_What are they doing here? At __her__ bar?_

The men are standing in front of her and Johanna before she can even manage to catch her breath. They've both showered off since their last encounter, sporting dark-wash jeans and clean shirts; Katniss gulps as she absorbs Peeta's entire physique, his knit grey shirt tight around his biceps, stretching over his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. From where she's sitting, his curls look so plush, flopping loosely over his ears, his eyes bright under long lashes, smile as genuine and as captivating as ever.

She barely manages to suppress all the inhuman sounds bubbling in the back of her throat at the sight of him.

"Well, ladies, it's wonderful to run in to you again," Finnick tosses out charmingly, resting a hand on the countertop beside Johanna. "We don't have a game tomorrow, so we thought tonight posed the perfect opportunity to get absolutely hammered."

Whatever sappiness had been coursing through her veins as she drank Peeta in earlier instantly turns to stone. Katniss eyes Finnick distrustfully, feeling suddenly territorial over the bar. She feels _invaded_. This is her place, that she introduced to Johanna a few years back, and that doesn't belong to wandering outsiders.

But then, her gaze flickers to Peeta, whose eyes are wide with vigilance. "Mind if we join you at the bar?" He speaks to both girls, but his gaze doesn't part from the raven-haired misanthrope, her fingers nervously flying to her braid.

Well, at least he asked permission.

Katniss is thankful when Johanna pipes up to equipoise her silence, welcoming the men; Finnick takes the stool on the other side of Johanna, and Katniss is momentarily relieved with his distance, but suddenly, Peeta slips into the seat beside _her_, and she feels her throat rapidly constricting.

Oh, god. She wonders if she's about to have an asthma attack. Well, she doesn't have asthma, but she's already beginning to show symptoms, so she's on the verge of self-diagnosis when—

"Are you okay?"

Peeta's expression is knit with concern, his entire body angled slightly toward her as he frowns.

It takes her a few seconds to remember how to breathe, but once she finally does, the rush of cool air down her windpipe alleviates some of the heat sweltering under the skin of her cheeks and forehead, and she manages a nod.

"Yeah. Just a little, uh… _surprised,_ I guess."

"Finn and I can leave if you're uncomfortable—"

She shakes her head ferociously. "No, it's—it's fine." She looks over her shoulder to see Johanna already engaged in a full-fledged debate with Finnick. Friendly in nature, of course, but still lively. "I don't want to interrupt the love birds over there."

He chuckles. "Believe it or not, Finnick actually has a girlfriend back home. Her name's Annie, and she's got him wound so tightly around her finger I'm surprised he hasn't suffocated himself yet. She's such a sweetheart, and he's head over heels for that girl… wouldn't trade her for anything in the entire world. But he's just a natural flirt, you know? Doesn't mean anything by it—it's mostly harmless. Well, as long as your friend over there can handle his intensity…. sometimes he takes it a bit too far, but he never does so intentionally, I swear. He's a good guy."

She grooves her elbow against the countertop, resting her cheek on her elbow. Although she hates to admit it, the way he speaks is modestly charming.

"If anyone can handle him, it's Johanna. The girl's crafty, I'll give her that."

"If there's one thing I've learned about Johanna in the five minutes I've ever spent around her, it's that she's pretty damn devious."

Katniss tweaks a brow, parting her lips to ask exactly what he means by that, but they're interrupted by a voice opposite them.

"Well, Miss Everdeen, you've got yourself quite a handsome date," the woman propped against the other side of the bar asks, wrinkles webbing from the corners of her eyes as she leans over the counter to smile at the pair.

Katniss is sure she's flushing beet red from head to toe. "He's not my d—"

"Hush, girl. Just pretend for me." She looks briefly to Peeta, who has a blush of his own curling below his cheekbones, before her stare returns to Katniss. "Now, introduce me to your _date_, dear."

If Katniss didn't adore the woman so much, she'd want to throw her ice water at her. "This is Peeta. He, uh… he's in town for the CWS. He plays for TCU."

Sae blinks in shock a few times, her leathery lips falling open in a bemused grin. "What a catch, girl!"

Katniss ignores her. "Peeta, this is Sae. She's been my neighbor my whole life, and she owns the bar. Please don't listen to a word she says—she's like my grandmother. She personally holds herself accountable for humiliating me."

Peeta releases one of his musical chuckles, stretching his hand over the bar. "It's nice to meet you, Sae. I would tell you Katniss has told me all about you, but I literally met her an hour and a half ago."

Sae takes his peace offering, shaking his hand firmly. "She doesn't talk much, anyway. But don't be fooled by her hard shell; deep down, she's got a really kind heart."

"I'm right here, Sae," Katniss growls, her timbre fierce and low to hopefully balance out the feeble reddening in her cheeks.

"Like I said, _deep down._" She laughs warmly. "Anyway, what can I get for you, young man?"

Peeta looks hopelessly at the menu lying unopened on the surface between his hands, his gaze shooting frantically to Katniss. "Any recommendations?" he bids with a breathy chuckle.

"You have to try the macaroni and cheese. It's legendary." It's also the only thing Katniss ever gets—she's not exactly what one could call _adventurous_—but with good reason. It's practically a slice of heaven.

Peeta claps his hands together. "Well, the mac n' cheese sounds lovely."

"And to drink?"

"Just a water would be good." He hands her the menu, and Katniss finds herself ogling him. When he notices her bizarre glare, he laughs. "What?"

"Water?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Unlike my friend over there, I'm not too enchanted with the idea of getting 'hammered,' as he put it. Especially not when I'm on a trip as important as this."

She blinks, impressed. So the kid's polite, charming, and shows admirable restraint. What else can he do? Climb mountains? Swim oceans? Charm snakes?

"You're not drinking either." He motions to her half-downed water glass. "Unless that's vodka, and in that case, your throat must be lined with steel."

She toys with the ends of her hair. "I'm only twenty," she admits softly, her eyes dropping from his. God, she'd wanted to impress him, and now he probably thinks she's a child.

She almost topples off her stool when she feels Peeta's hand graze hers, gently drawing it from her braid. "You do that a lot," he comments. "Play with your braid, I mean."

There is nothing Katniss does better than grow irrationally defensive at inappropriate moments, so naturally, she feels her chest tightening, her nostrils flaring. "So what?"

If he's alarmed at her reaction, he does a venerable job at concealing it; instead, he laughs quietly, his fingers ghosting across hers as they lower to rest on her knee. She's startled that he's seemingly unwilling to pull away. As if he feels that tingling in the pit of his stomach, too, or the goose bumps, or a fluttering heartbeat like her. It's _all_ she feels. "It's not a bad thing. It's just a nervous tick, isn't it? I have them, too. I chew on the inside of my cheek, or drag my teeth on my lip. If it makes you feel better, then so be it, I just… I don't want you to feel uncomfortable around me. You've got nothing to be ashamed of."

There it is, that word again. _Uncomfortable._ With its second appearance in the span of just a few minutes, she can't help but carve at herself, wondering… is she uncomfortable? Is his presence unpleasant for her?

No, she supposes it's not. Anxious, yes, but that's simply because he's a boy, a _cute_ boy, a _really, really, really cute_ boy, and he's giving her the time of day in a way hardly anyone has before. Certainly not someone with a status as gold-leaf as his.

She's never been good with flirting or communicating or even _trusting_ enough to let someone like him in for even just a night. Someone who's too good to be true. Someone who will evaporate by this time next week.

Katniss's Achilles' heel is her incompetence when it comes to faith and hope. She never lets her walls down, fearing she'll be bruised in the process, because that's what people have done to other people since the beginning of time. They lie, cheat, steal. They leave.

Katniss doesn't stomach departure well.

But maybe, just maybe, she could allow her guard to pool at her feet this one time because _Peeta is good_. He must be. He's good, and he's kind, and he makes her smile which is a triumph of its own. She's twenty years old and has never taken a leap of faith like this before; it's about time she just enjoyed herself. Just this once.

It doesn't seem like that'd be too difficult with Peeta, anyway.

So she tells him, honestly, "I don't feel uncomfortable. I just… I'm not good at this. Informality and all that jazz."

He doesn't seem to be frightened by her, which is a first. Usually, her steely guard is enough to make boys jump town on her, but Peeta only leans in closer, the fingers that had been faintly brushing over hers furrow deeper into her palm so that their hands snake together. She's appalled when she doesn't even attempt to retract from his grasp. She could if she wanted to—she's strong for her size and his grasp is so delicate—but, bizarrely, she doesn't.

"We don't have to do 'all that jazz,' not if you don't want to. I just—forgive me for being blunt, Katniss, but I like you. I want to talk to you. To get to know you a little." Then the corners of his mouth twist up. "And, of course, I have to tell you my life story, since I was going to do that earlier before I was interrupted," he jokes.

She sighs. It seems easy enough. _Safe_ enough.

And so they do what he wanted, what _she_ wanted—they talk. It's oddly simple with Peeta, as if the boy was put on this earth just to make conversation; he carries the discussion on his broad shoulders so firmly, not allowing it to drop for even a moment. For the most part, he supplies the dialogue, and she supplies her attentive ears, but he does stir her with questions, which she answers willingly. She tells him she's a Biology major, she has a little sister, her favorite color is green, she's lived in this town her whole life, she hates having her hair down. She withholds secrets of mammoth dimensions, like her ability to sing, like her father's death, like her mother's mental corrosion; other than that, she pries herself wide open for this boy in a way she's done for no one else so quickly.

In turn, he swamps her with details from the deepest corners of his own life, folding open his binding for her to sift through his pages at will. He tells her that he's played baseball since he was five, his parents own a bakery, his favorite color is orange (but not construction-cone or Texas Longhorn orange; rather, a hue you'd see during a sunset), he's an ace cake decorator, he loves to paint, he's an Art major (although his mother refuses to accept that, claiming it's not a real degree), and he has two brothers.

In many ways, he's her flagrant opposite, but she doesn't mind. He's the voice to her silence, the imagination to her rationality, the smile to her poker-face, the John Watson to her Sherlock, the Apollo to her Artemis. He's her counterpart. He's her compliment.

And he's as brilliant, as blindingly radiant as the sun.

They hardly pay any mind to the quickly deteriorating pair at their side until Johanna and Finnick have both become babbling, inebriated messes of incoherent giggles. Peeta and Katniss have been immersed with each other for nearly an hour, her reservations as expended as his macaroni; they're both well-fed in every sense of the word. For the first time in ages, she feels nourished, nurtured by this healthy contact.

She can't help but wonder why she'd wanted to push it away in the first place. Why she'd wanted to push _him_ away.

And then he says what they've both been dreading too soon, and she suddenly remembers _exactly_ why.

"I should probably get Finnick back to the hotel before he either passes out or takes to projectile vomiting."

Something in her chest plummets, tugging deep down like a pendulum, but she swallows and nods. "Same for Jo."

He gives her a sad smile. "I'll walk you two to your car, alright?"

She accepts, and after paying Sae and slinging her arm around Johanna's waist, she manages to steer her staggering friend—with Peeta and Finnick close behind—out to the parking lot.

Twilight sheathes them as they hobble out to wide expanse of concrete, the muted sounds of faint traffic and cricket chirps echoing off the pavement, and Katniss remarks a strange sensation tingling in her core. The world around her is just as it always has been, the sky the same one she sees from her window every night. This city is hers. This air is hers. This _night_ is hers.

But the golden-haired boy standing with his friend underneath a flickering streetlamp just feet from Johanna's sedan is _not_ hers, and he doesn't belong here. This isn't _his_ world.

She'd give anything for it to be. She'd play Ariel, sacrificing the singing voice Peeta will never hear so that he doesn't have to leave her. It doesn't matter that they've only known each other a few hours, that there are still so many secretes penned up in tombs deep in the confines of their own heads, because she's never felt like this. She's never felt this bourgeoning hope, blooming inside her heart like a dandelion. A beautiful weed.

Peeta's different. Different than anything. Different from her in every way, which is what makes them correspond so perfectly.

She rubs her temples after slugging Johanna into the passenger's seat. What is wrong with her? She's _never_ acted like this before. Never been so… so weak. So needy.

She hates herself for it, but she finds she can't hate _him,_ because nothing on this earth could make her hate the boy that caused her to blossom.

As Finnick slumps against the light pole, Peeta momentarily abandons him to meet Katniss by the car door.

"Katniss, I—" He smiles at her, the wistfulness hazing his blue eyes into dark seas. She feels it, too. "I had an incredible time tonight."

"I did, too."

He shuffles on his feet, frowning as his eyes fall to the concrete, and he gulps, obviously fighting for the right words to say. For the first time tonight, the boy's silver tongue falters.

And then he chuckles airily. "You can thank Johanna for that," he says, and Katniss's eyebrows knit together in confusion. So he explains. "After I said goodbye to you at the ballpark, she came up to me and told me that you two would be here, at Sae's, if I wanted to come see you again. It was crazy, and I had no idea how she knew, but… I'm glad she did that. I'm glad I got to see you again."

Comprehension floods Katniss's systems—_that's what Johanna had whispered in Peeta's ear_—but her frown doesn't ebb, and she finds herself asking, "You had no idea how she knew what?"

He smiles guiltily at her, and even in the pallid lighting of the dusky parking lot, she can see his cheeks flowering with color.

"She knew I was attracted to you. That I wanted to get to know you, even if it would end like this."

Well, at least the boy's blunt. That's something she dutifully appreciates.

Unsure of what to say, she embarrassedly lets her gaze fall, her fingers lifting to fiddle with her braid. Suddenly, Peeta's hand is on hers again to tow it away, but instead of bringing it to her side like expected, his fingers leave hers so that he can cup his palm around her jaw, his calloused palms akin to satin against her skin, and she leans into his touch.

"Why do I make you so nervous?" he breathes almost inaudibly, his words swirling in eager tendrils through the humid summery air around them.

He doesn't get it, does he?

There are a million things Katniss could say. _Because you're kind. Because you're handsome. Because you had twenty-thousand people watching you play ball earlier today. Because no one is like you. Because you make me feel special. Because you make me feel wanted. Because I had a wonderful time tonight. Because it doesn't matter. Because I won't see you after this week. Because I won't see you after tonight. Because you're on a track to greatness. Because I'm nothing._

But Katniss has never been good with words, and this moment surely won't prove to be an anomaly. Even so, she manages to synthesize all her fears, all her worries into one simple phrase, a string of four words that sums up everything and nothing all the same.

"Because I want you."

Her eyes catch his, silver hooking around blue, blue encompassing silver, gazes dueling and caving simultaneously as they both try to show the other every last sentiment flickering through their heads.

But it's not enough. It can't be enough, it won't _ever_ be enough, and she knows that.

He knows it, too. And, as always, Peeta's the first to wield his boldness, testing the waters and dragging her in with him. His other hand splits the dark to meet her cheek, both palms bracketing her face, and in one swift movement his lips are on hers. His purpose is clear, but the kiss is so impossibly gentle that she feels herself quaver, reducing to a puddle of gelatin, so she frantically clutches the fabric of his shirt to anchor herself to him.

The voice in her head sputters, cutting through the labyrinth of her mind that seems to be made of nothing but dead-ends, and she feels hopelessly lost, and hopelessly _confused_, but when she feels his lips part slightly, his breath filling her lungs, her mind suddenly calms.

One of his hands slides from her cheek to her waist to hold her in place, cradling her against him, and suddenly, something inside her clicks. She presses her mouth more deliberately against his, her clutch tightening on his shirt, and she hears a soft moan form in the back of Peeta's throat, and it only emboldens her. At once, she is not the shy girl playing fretfully with her braid. She is not the girl avoiding Peeta's gaze. She is not the girl hiding from him, from everyone, from herself.

She is the girl on fire.

Kissing Peeta fans her embers, her flame burning brighter and higher, and she lifts her fingers to tangle them in Peeta's soft, curly hair, mooring him to her. He responds ardently, his mouth still gentle on hers but less cautious, and somewhere in the midst of their silk-laced sighs and tightening grips, he tells her, "I want you, too. So much."

She has never felt so alive.

After what feels like a split second but was, more realistically, a minute or two, Peeta lifts his head, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone as he smiles down at her. "You're beautiful, Katniss Everdeen. You know that?"

Her stomach vaults in triumphant cartwheels.

She smiles.

Instead of bringing his lips back to hers like she wants, he softly presses them to her forehead, then her cheek, then the tip of her nose.

She smolders.

"I should get going."

She shatters.

All she can do is nod, swallowing the dejection and the frustration—after all, she is an expert at steeling herself. "Me, too. Before Johanna barfs all over the upholstery."

Peeta chuckles lightly, but it's hardly as musical as before, and she can see his own distress swimming behind his smile. She wants to muster anger or another emotion she's well-equipped with wielding—being mad is easiest for Katniss—but she simply can't do it. She can't be angry with Peeta. And somehow, she can't be angry with herself, because she wouldn't take this back.

It's an odd feeling for her. Feeling hurt with nothing to regret, nothing to blame.

She likes Peeta. She can't regret him.

"We can see each other again, while I'm still in town," he tells her quietly, his fingers skimming over the ridges of her braid. "Tomorrow night. The night after that. If we keep winning… I could be here over the weekend, Katniss. We can see each other then. I don't want…"

He doesn't have to finish.

She tethers her fingers into the soft down at the nape of his neck, and his jaw hardens as he gazes down at her, his smile twisted with ache.

"I'll see you again, Katniss." It sounds too much like a question.

She's never been good at praying, but in this moment, she prays he's right.

They exchange phone numbers, followed by a quick kiss, and then one more, and then two, before he opens the car door for her to slide in. She rolls down the window, and he bows over for a moment, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

When he leans in to press his lips to hers one more time, she murmurs into his mouth, "Stay with me."

When he pulls back, he offers her a sad smile, and unlike nearly every other moment they've spent together, he takes to silence.

Her eyes are stinging, her throat thick and throbbing as she revs the engine and pulls out. Although she can see him watching her through her peripheral, she refuses to look at him, her entire resolve turning to stone. If she catches those eyes one more time, she'll shatter all over again, and Katniss veers to avoid such a fate.

However, as she's exiting the parking lot, she does spare him one glance through the review mirror, and although he's since helped Finnick off the pavement, his body is still angled toward the sedan.

He gives her a half-wave much like the one he'd gifted her with at the ballpark, and she can't help but feel an inkling of hope that he'll surprise her again, like he had tonight. That he'll keep surprising her. That he'll keep coming back.

She's not accustomed to operating under hope, but for Peeta, she figures it's worth a shot.

As they drive down the darkened street, Johanna stirs at her side.

"I may be drunk, but I'm not deaf."

"Go to sleep, Jo."

Deliberately defying Katniss's directive, Johanna shifts in her seat, straightening up a little. "I heard everything back there. You're not a quiet kisser, you know."

"Shut up."

Through her peripheral, Katniss can see Johanna smiling. "The boy likes you," she sighs.

Her heart aches and leaps simultaneously. How is that possible?

She doesn't say anything, but oddly, her muteness seems so inappropriate now.

A thick silence fills the car before Johanna eventually punctures it with a low chuckle. "You can thank me now, you know."

"Hmm?"

"For setting this whole shebang up," Johanna laughs, following up with a hiccup. "I told Peeta where I'd be taking you, and that's why he was there. Because of me, Kat. Call me Cupid."

Katniss squares her jaw, her eyes remaining pinned to the road as it rushes beneath their wheels. "There are a lot of other names I could call you, too, you know, and none of them are so kind."

"Stop acting like you have a stick up your butt, Katniss," she slurs rowdily, her words slightly dragged together, slowed from inebriation. "You had a good time tonight. I know you did. You kept laughing with Peeta and you _never_ laugh, Katniss. Never."

A ghost of a smile traces over her lips as her mind flickers back to just an hour before, but she says nothing.

"I know it's a little sad that you'll never see him again after next week—" Katniss winces—"but it's okay. You had a good time tonight, Katniss. You let your hair down—well, figuratively. I think your hair is permanently yanked up in that tight little braid of yours, but… you know…" She frowns. "What was I saying?"

Katniss lets out a humorless chuckle. "It doesn't matter."

Johanna, suddenly immersed in confusion, slumps back in her seat.

After a few moments, she belches and then continues on her previous train of thought. "All I'm saying, Brainless, is that it's going to be alright. You were brave and you opened up to someone you would normally shove right into a pile of mud and I think that's a pretty damn big step in the right direction, don't you? You're growing, Kitty-Kat."

"Don't call me that."

"Then smile, Katniss. You met a pretty stellar dude tonight who thinks you're just the bees knees. There's hope for you."

Katniss turns her head briefly to offer her friend a grotesquely fake smile, and Johanna just laughs, sagging even further, and within a minute, she's snoring.

Even though Johanna is an annoying drunk, she's never been short of insight, and despite her desire to toss everything her friend had said aside, she can't.

Johanna was right. Even though Katniss will walk away from this whole situation—whether it be now, tomorrow, or sometime next week—by herself, with nothing but a phone number tying her to Peeta Mellark, she can't pretend the night was a disaster.

To begin with, she abandoned her code of silence. She used her voice, testing the waters, learning its power, and found that even though she's more comfortable in the quiet, she's strong enough to crawl out of her shell when necessary. She's not inept.

Second of all, she let her hair down. (Figuratively. Always figuratively.) She shrugged off her guard momentarily to let in a boy who bore nothing but good intentions and kind smiles, and he made her happy. She was—_is_—actually happy.

But third of all, and possibly most importantly, she was graced with a new sentiment that she's avoided for years, and even though it doesn't work without leaving scars, it's monumentally fulfilling. It can move mountains, channel rivers, conquer fear and anger and everything else she's grown to know too well.

She's learned how to hope.

Even though it doesn't come free of disadvantages, she's found that there are much worse games to play.

* * *

_Although I was planning on having this be a cute little one-shot, I didn't realize that ending it __without__ Peeta would be such a downer. (I guess things are always downers without our favorite baker boy, huh?)_

_If you guys are up for a quick second part to the one-shot, let me know. I have an idea in mind, but unless you guys want me to write it, I'll back off. Any feedback, by way of reviews, PMs, or Tumblr asks (you can find me at **the-peeta-pocket**__), is always welcome!_

_I hope you all have a wonderful week. :) _


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